Month: August 2016

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Cooking, by Will Stanton

James was a fantastically good cook, and I believe I have figured out
why.  There are several reasons that led
to his preoccupation with having enough food to eat and enjoying it.
To begin with, James knew hunger. 
He had very little to eat as a boy in Georgia and probably went hungry
quite often.  Although his father was
undoubtedly very intelligent (he could quote passages from the Bible merely
from having heard them at church), he was illiterate and could find only menial
work, which brought in very little money. 
They lived in a pre-Civil-War-era house without electricity and
sometimes had only collard greens for supper. 
As a growing boy, this lack of food frequently must have preyed upon
James’ mind.
James left home at age fifteen to make his own way.  During this time, he had very little money
and ate very little.  Probably the first
time he had a square meal was when he joined the Air Force.  Although he, at last, did not go hungry,
military chow doesn’t have a great reputation. 
It wasn’t until after he left the service and used the G.I. bill to
begin college that serendipity set him upon a path to learning about good
quality food, prepared well.
One rainy day in San Antonio, James took refuge inside the lobby of an
elegant hotel and sat down to study his French. 
In walked a well-dressed, older gentleman who immediately took notice of
James.  Did I mention that young James
was stunningly handsome, enough to turn heads? 
Well, he certainly did with Monsieur Charles Bois de Chêne, millionaire
from Lausanne, Switzerland.  Charles spoke to James in French, who also
replied in excellent French, James having inherited somehow an innately
brilliant mind and could learn rapidly. 
A strong friendship rapidly progressed to the point that Charles decided
to take James with him to Switzerland and France so James could gain greater
experience speaking French.
While traveling through France and Switzerland, James accompanied
Charles to operas and ballets, afterwards being taken to meet the casts.  They attended the exclusive Cannes Film
Festival.  And central to this story, he
certainly learned a lot about proper preparation and presentation of food.  This understanding and interest in food
stayed with him throughout the rest of his life.
Charles introduced James to elegant and varied meals among the
five-star resorts along Lake Como. 
Whenever they came across one of the famous French pâtisseries with
their all-too-tempting pastries, they indulged themselves so much that James
became concerned that those pastries easily could turn him into a cochon de
lait, or ”suckling pig,” the French idiom for someone who has become
rather chunky.   And, when they were in
Paris, they dined at the world-famous Hotel Ritz, where James came to truly understand
haute cuisine.
By the time I met James in Denver, he already had developed an interest
in cooking fine meals.  I know that I
have a natural instinct for knowing how to cook, and I have done so on
occasion; however, I never cared much for taking the time.  Before I had met James, I generally prepared
simple meals for myself.  Then after
James and I moved in together, James’ preference was to do the cooking, so I
generally assisted only as a sous chef, except when I was inspired to
create a favorite dish of mine.
James had many varied interests and excelled in them all, yet I am sure
that there remained a residual emotional scar from childhood when there was
virtually no food in his family’s house. 
As a consequence, he always made sure we had a full larder, including a
large pantry, extra storage on basement shelves, and in a large freezer in the
basement.
Because James enjoyed cooking so much, I bought him cookery gifts over
the years, such as a Cuisinart food processor, enameled, heavy-iron Le Crueset cook-pots, the best quality
mixer, Chinese woks, bread-maker, pasta-maker, crystal wine glasses, and a
large set of stoneware dinnerware.  While
we were together, we enjoyed hosting dinner-parties.  For a while, after he died of lung cancer, I
tried occasionally to continue that practice, but I finally lost heart and
suspended the practice.
I set the professional mixer on top of the refrigerator and covered it
with a plastic cover. I also covered the two dozen cook books.  The plastic covers have remained there now
going on twenty years.  An acquaintance
coveted my expensive Cuisinart and asked to buy it for only $20.  Because she supposedly is a friend, I agreed
and let it go for that.  Most of the
professional Le Crueset pots went in
a garage-sale.  Other pots and pans
remain, dust-covered, in the bottom drawer of my stove.  I have little interest in drinking wine, and
few people come to my house, so the crystal wine-glasses remain in the buffet,
unused.
Now my meals are what I call “utility eating.”  I prepare salads, heat a can of soup, make a
sandwich, or occasionally cook something simple on the stove-top.  The oven hasn’t been on in years.  I just don’t have the interest in preparing
varied and interesting meals just for myself. 
Perhaps the most used appliance in my kitchen is the old microwave.  Sometimes I think that, if I didn’t have a
microwave, I’d starve.
The one prevention for repetitive and boring meals for me, however, is
that I often have modest meals with friends out in various restaurants, nothing
fancy, just basic food.  And, that’s not
so much because of being able to order varied food which I don’t wish to bother
making for myself.  It is because of the
good company with my friends, which is especially important in my life right
now.
©
19 May 2016 
About the
Author 
I have had a life-long fascination with
people and their life stories.  I also
realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or
fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual
ones.  Since I joined this Story Time
group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group.  I do put some thought and effort into my
stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.
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Baths, by Ricky

          The
first baths I clearly remember were the first two I took at my grandparent’s
farm in Minnesota.  I had just turned
8-years old.  It was on the first
Saturday following my arrival in June.  In
the summer kitchen is where we bathed, using a large galvanized washtub.  It is “different” from the bathtub back home
but I could do it without any problem, so I was not nervous.
          My
11 1/2-year old uncle went first every time. 
The first time, I was in the house.  My grandmother sent me out to bathe while my
uncle was still in the tub.  As I have
stated before, at this age I was still extremely shy about anyone seeing me
naked.  However, I always wanted to see
any boy naked (girls were still yucky at that prepubescent age), so at his
request, I washed his back and watched him dry and dress (I did not see the
thing I wanted to see).  He wanted to
watch me undress and get in the tub, but I did not with him there so he left
for the house.
          One
thing I did not plan on was using my uncle’s bath water.  Nonetheless, I did it.  The water was only tepid at that point so my
bath did not take very long.  I dried,
dressed, and went to the house.  Another
thing I did not plan on, or suspect, was grandmother’s suspicion that my
bathing was entirely too short to get me clean. 
She asked me if I washed all over and I said yes, but she then looked
behind my ears and sent me back to try again. 
I never had this trouble with my mother (perhaps California is cleaner).
          Back
in the tub, I washed behind my ears and everywhere else I thought I
missed.  After returning inside, grandma
checked my ears again and darn it; she still found dirt behind my ears.  Therefore, back I went, only this time she
went with me!  My stomach started doing
flip-flops.  No one sees me naked and I
could tell she would be the first since I turned six.  I was a nervous wreck.  My grandmother then undressed me and had me stand in the tub while she
washed me from toe to head and all places in between.  I was in such a mental state with queasy
stomach and all; I do not know how I managed not to throw up.  This would happen when I’m out of
peppermints.*
          I
was out of peppermints again the next Saturday when she took me to the tub and
washed me again.  After that, I used
extra care to wash thoroughly everywhere on my body, so she never washed me again
and I did not need peppermints.
          I
had my first steam bath at my uncle’s home in Washington State when I was ten.  He had one built into the same building in
which he brewed beer.  According to my
father, the beer was good.  I was only a
little nervous but not upset.  By then I
actually wanted to see my dad, uncle, and cousins nude.  I was not disappointed.  (No one suspected it but puberty for me began
when I was 9 ½.  However, there were no
noticeable outward indications yet.)  It
was decades later before I went to a steam bath as an adult.
          By
the time, I moved to Denver, I did not need peppermints anymore because I was
no longer very concerned or anxious about being seen in the buff by men or
women.  Friends eventually told me about
the Lake Steam Baths, Indian Springs Resort and its hot springs, and a coed hot
springs near Penrose.  All of these
places featured either mandatory or optional nude bathing.
          The
hot mineral water at the Indian Springs Resort actually greatly reduced the
pain in my back.  I recommend it to
everyone who enjoys nude bathing and hope it does not become a “lost” part of
our culture.  All people should learn the
joys of nude bathing in either a hot springs or steam room.
*  The reference to “peppermints” is the result of
myself and three other members of the group deciding that we would use the
phrase “This would happen when I’m out of peppermints” in each of our
stories.  The phrase itself came from a
movie that we had seen together during the previous week.  In the movie, “Nijinsky,” one of the
gay characters used the phrase in response to a stressful situation.  Our stories were spaced out during the
reading session so after the first two times it was read, the others caught on
to the joke.
© 22 October 2012
About the Author 
 I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale
and then in Redondo Beach.  Just prior to
turning 8 years old in 1956, I was sent to live with my grandparents on their
farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents
divorced.
When united with my mother and stepfather two years later
in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California,
graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966.  After three tours of duty with the Air Force,
I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until
her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11-2001
terrorist attack.
I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010.   I find writing these memories to be
therapeutic.
My story blog is, TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com. 
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Strange Vibrations, by Ray S

Muse, where are you now? I couldn’t sleep last night when we
were in bed together because you refused to be still. Now you want to play hard
to get.
Quickly like the dawn of a new day my tardy Muse returns
upon our decision to go to the basement storage locker in search of some long
forgotten item that has suddenly become indispensable.
Muse distracted me from my mission by a strange change in
the atmosphere of the room. No, lights didn’t dim, floors and walls didn’t
creak, and there certainly were no vibrations. Nothing so spooky and corny,
just a compulsion to look into some old boxes filled with three generations of
family memorabilia, treasures and trash. Some best left to rest in dusty peace,
but the decision to dispatch some of it, as always it is, is more convenient to
ignore the stuff—out of sight out of mind.
A high school diploma, class of 1943—the prize from
surviving four traumatic years at four different high schools.
A 100-year-old, or so it seems, photo album with many faded
sepia photos labeled by my mother identifying people I never knew.
A picture of my father with some of his army buddies at
camp, pre-World War One. Looking closely, I could hardly recognize this pretty
young boy, but it was reassuring to have met this man in his early days.
Then a letter addressed to my mother from a dear friend
expressing her condolences when learning of my parents’ divorce. It was an
intrusion on my part to have read the letter to its conclusion, especially when
the friend indicated that the woman my father later married had been a mutual
acquaintance of all of the parties. Sometimes you learn more than you needed
to, but it did answer some questions and left more to remain unanswered—which
is just as well.
Reminiscent of this bit of drama, up from the depths of
another musty file of memories came the vibrations of the summer two weeks that
conveniently located me at YMCA camp, circa 1939. Oblivious of nothing more
important than trying to avoid getting knocked down with a mouth full of Lake
Michigan sand while playing King of the Hill, my parents took the opportunity
to drive up to camp for an unannounced visit whereupon they broke the news of
their decision to divorce. And this was the beginning of my new life as a kid
raised only by his mother and without the presence of a father to show him how
to be a man or something other than the pansy they were blessed with.
Hindsight being the disaster that it is, the vibrations of
all these many years have had their good vibes too. After Uncle Sam’s
contribution to my higher education, the ensuing attempt at a good middle class
married life with a wonderful wife and family, followed by my very own debutante
coming out part and joining the real GLBTQ world, the boxes can continue to
mustier or be more musty until little old Muse and I make another trip to the
strange and scary land of TMI [Too Much Information – ed.].
So much for the strange vibrations that result in too much
navel gazing and self-indulgence; it wasn’t fun while it lasted.
Fini.
© 23 May 2016 
About the Author 
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Right Now, by Phillip Hoyle

Right now I’m packing my bags to make
a road trip to Mid-Missouri, there to celebrate Christmas with my children,
grandchildren, ex-wife, and probably a few old friends.
Right now I am closing the massage
practice that I’ve sustained for fifteen years.  
Right now I’m cleaning out the massage
studio, distributing furnishings and equipment, and packing up too many things
to take home. My partner is happy for me but not keen on my bringing more
things to the house. Due to the trip, I need to clear the room by Saturday
afternoon if at all possible.
Right now I’m finishing my Christmas
preparations, all of them that I can remember to do.
Right now I’m tending to new
responsibilities related to the co-op art gallery I’ve joined within the past
month.
Right now I’m dealing with feelings
related to my retirement that will occur along with the closing of my practice.
Right now I’m reading a story I
barely found time to write.
Right now I’m tired but hopeful.
All this activity alongside today’s
theme—right now—reminds me of feelings I experienced in my late twenties. I had
left one position in an up-and-coming congregation in order to attend graduate
school. Although I was receiving a nice grant for my studies, I still needed to
supplement my income with a part-time job. I secured one at another church
where I served as a youth minister. In my four years at the prior church I had
learned quite a lot about my work style, both its good habits and not so good
habits. In my new office right above my desk I hung an all-caps note that read:
DO IT NOW. This represented my attempt to overcome a habit of procrastination
especially in tasks that I didn’t relish. I thought I would simply make the
phone call ASAP and become much more efficient. I needed to be efficient. I was
going to school, working (no church job can ever really part-time), and living
with my wife, two children, and sometimes other adults or foster children. My
life was full, busy, exciting, and demanding. I couldn’t waste any time
worrying over some phone call, recruitment task, or arrangement. Do it now seemed wise. It helped
somewhat. Right now is good advice for over-busy folk.
Last Saturday I talked with my friend
Sue about my complicated “right now” feelings. I told her that I wonder how the
loss of intimacy that for years has been provided almost daily through massage
will affect me. I then contrasted the feelings of closing a private practice in
order to retire with those of leaving ministry. In my leaving a congregation some
congregational members may have felt sadden, but they still had their church, a
minister, and their community. By contrast my massage practice is not a
community for the folks who visit me. It’s a service, even if in some instances
a kind of emotional relationship emerges. Even if a client and I continue to
see one another socially, the relationship without the massage practice will be
changed. Individually they must seek massage services. I am not leaving them in
someone else’s care, and I am not leaving Denver. Since I have never done
anything like this before, it feels different.
This made sense to Sue and gave her
more insight into my feelings of pressure and upset. The problem has to do with
schedule—too many things needing resolution in too short a time! RIGHT NOW. Of
course I assume I will survive. I know I will enjoy my trip, and I am looking
forward to the automatic deposits of money into my bank account. Right now I
remind myself how good life is, even for this tired old man. I assured Sue and
myself that I am celebrating my life. I always do. I do so right now with you.
© 17 Dec
2013 
About the Author 
 Phillip Hoyle
lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In
general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two
years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now
focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE
program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
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Queer as a $3 Bill, by Pat Gourley

This is a phrase I can actually personally embrace. It is one that I certainly hope is used to describe me, or my posture in the world, at least once in awhile. Though I am not sure anyone has ever said to or about me: he’s as Queer as a $3 dollar bill. I am however under no illusions that it has not crossed many people’s minds after their first encounters with me.

As I have written about many times for this group I am a strong advocate for discovering and accentuating the differences between gay and straight. That is after all why, now 40 years on, I am still frequenting the LGBT Center of Colorado. I feel our greatest gifts to humanity will involve bringing unique ways of looking at the world through our queer eyes and not groveling to try and show the straight world we are really just like them.

We start throwing off clues at a very early age that we are different from our hetero brothers and sisters in so many ways. I am always fond of sharing one of Harry Hay’s favorite stories on difference. I am paraphrasing here a bit but it involved an episode where he was called out by some other boys for throwing a baseball like a girl. Female acquaintances at the time corrected him saying you don’t throw like a girl you throw like a sissy.

Harry was able, eventually perhaps, to recognize this as not a slam on his masculinity but rather an example of how gay boys are not like little girls but rather an entity uniquely all their own.

The straight world with their binary blinders on see things as either masculine or feminine. They very often confuse non-typical behaviors as belonging to the opposite gender when in fact it is a behavior neither female nor male but something totally different, totally other. Perhaps it is an expression of a third or fourth gender?

A recent documentary by the filmmaker named David Thorpe called “Do I Sound Gay” is a wonderful case in point supporting the possibility that we really are different in very intrinsic ways. Here is a link to the trailer for the documentary: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R21Fd8-Apf0

The film deals with Thorpe’s own personal journey around wanting to not “sound gay”. The film looks at this phenomenon as it effects many gay men but I suspect a similar though perhaps less impacting version of the issue could be true for lesbians. There is a tone I often subtly identify as a lesbian voice and it is always comforting when I hear it. Comforting even when the voice is calling a basketball game or trying to communicate just what it is going on with female golfers.

This business of “sounding gay” is one of those issues though that I feel is more problematic for gay men. Thorpe’s presentation seems to vacillate between the gay sounding voice being an innate characteristic or rather perhaps learned from older gay mentors and therefore something that can be un-learned. I prefer to think of it as quite intrinsic to who we are and that this simply comes through and is allowed to flower with our coming out and acceptance of our queer identity.

I am to this day frequently mistaken for a woman especially on the phone. Though I do not think the “gay voice” is common to all gay men it is certainly for many. And perhaps those gay men with a masculine sounding voice are simply better actors than the rest of us.

The only recording of my voice from the 1960’s I am aware of is an old tape re-mastered to CD a few years ago of my talk to my senior high school class in 1967 on my return from Mississippi. I was down there with several others on a self-discovery trip about American racism for a group of clueless white middle class teenagers from suburban Chicago. My main mentor arranged the trip in those days, a progressive Holy Cross nun named Sister Alberta Marie. In presenting to my classmates I actually do remember being conscious at the time to speak slowly. Perhaps this was to avoid slipping into “gay speak” and having classmates at least quietly remark to themselves: “well, he certainly is queer as a $3 dollar bill”.

You can check out the recording here and decide for yourself just how gay I sound. In the interest of full disclosure I think I was consciously trying to butch it up especially since this was recorded just a month or so after my first sex with another man. Check out the long “S’s” especially when I say Mississippi, so much for coming across as butch: http://www.pjgourley.com/MississippiTrip1967.php

Trust me I was absolutely not aware of any gay-mentors in my life to learn this queer-speak from!

I am particularly fond of the documentary “Do I Sound Gay” in part because it raises a myriad of issues around accepting our queerness and the often debilitating internalized homophobia that accompanies that journey. The film is available on several platforms including Netflix and also on You Tube, iTunes and several others.

© March 2016

About the Author

I was born in La Porte, Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

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Public Places — Do It In Public, by Nicholas

I like doing it in public. I’ve always liked doing it in
public. There’s something about being out there that adds an extra pleasure.
I get tired of staying home and when I get antsy, I love to
go out into the city. I like city spaces. I like being with people even if it’s
a lot of people I don’t really want to be with. I’m talking about that
superficial, but still meaningful, social contact that city streets and spaces
provide. Cities like New York and San Francisco are full of such spots from
crowded subway trains to busy streets to popular parks with great views. People
like being around other people even if there is nothing close to relationship
material present. Look at any Starbucks or any coffeeshop. No sooner does one
open than every seat is taken with people chatting, working online, and just
reading The New Yorker. That would be me reading The New Yorker.
Coming from Eastern cities and San Francisco, Denver and
Denverites have never struck me as very socially inclined. Coloradans are much
more taken up with maintaining their own personal space and they think they
need lots of it. One person on an eight-foot long park bench is considered
crowded here. I have unintentionally jumped many ques when I didn’t realize
that the guy standing 15 feet back from a counter was actually next in line.
To my delight, Denver is coming to have some urban spaces,
places where you can wander and dawdle and people-watch among the crowds on a
sunny day.
First among them, of course, is Union Station which is not
just a building but an entire complex of buildings and streets and pedestrian
passageways. The station itself is impressive as an urban interior. It amazes
me how it is always busy with folks eating and drinking, lingering and passing
through to catch their buses and trains.
Our concept of space seems to be changing. Suddenly,
Denverites want to be around each other. The plaza in front of Union Station is
always streaming with pedestrians. Some eating ice cream. Some kids playing in the
open fountain. Some on their way to or from work. Some disappear around corners
and down alleyways to the train platforms behind the station or to the new
condos just built on what used to be empty, rusting railyards. One day I found
a place that makes Saigon coffee (now called Vietnamese coffee) tucked away in
a passage on the side of the station.
To the west of Union Station is a series of bridges and parks
that provide views of the city. Cross the first bridge and you come to Commons
Park with walkways along the Platte River. Nestled at the south end of the park
is the refurbished AIDS Grove, a peaceful spot tucked away amidst the busy
city. The next bridge takes you over the river to Platte Street with its
interesting shops like the Savory Spice Shoppe (my favorite) and the English
Tea Room. A third bridge crosses Interstate 25 and leads to what may be
Denver’s most charming neighborhood, Highlands, which is hilly and down right
quaint and lined with great eateries with great views. If you lived there, you
could walk to work in downtown and lots of people do.
Other spaces intrigue me as well. Like the plaza around the
main library and the art museum. Another pedestrian entrance into downtown from
the south through Civic Center, which, when it isn’t packed with crowds for
special events (like Pride Fest coming up), is generally empty. Except when the
lunchtime food trucks pull up and lunchers pour out of nearby offices.
Of course, I have to mention Denver’s first public space, the
16th Street Mall, sometimes called the city’s front porch. It’s way
too urban to be anybody’s front porch. By that I mean there is plenty to
dislike there from loud teenagers to haranguing preachers. That’s what makes it
urban—this is no small town square where everybody knows everybody else. It’s a
raw mix and you never can control what’s in the mix that day or evening. But
it’s still a pleasure to stroll down the always busy mall.
So, there you have a brief tour of public places I like. It
seems that Denver is getting to be more like a city every day. And I’m glad.
More people should do it in public.
© 3 Jun 2016 
About the Author 

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland,
then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from
work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga,
writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.
Posted on

Bicycle Memories (Parts 1 & 2), by Lewis

                                                    Part 1

I have already covered a
couple of my “bicycle memories” in past stories, including that of lying on the
front lawn of my house waiting for Sears to deliver the bicycle that my
grandfather had bought for me and having an allergic reaction to the tetanus
shot I received after being unintentionally cut off by an older boy while I was
still a novice and sailing head-first into a ditch.
Having saved the best for
last, I will now relate the tale of my “near-death” bicycle memory.  I was about nine-years-old.  I don’t remember whether I was riding home
from school or just out for a “cruise”. 
I was at the corner of Washington Street and 26th Avenue in
Hutchinson, Kansas, riding south.  The
intersection was not regulated by stop or yield signs.  Unseen by me, a panel delivery truck was
approaching the intersection from my right. 
We collided.  I have no memory of
being struck.  When I came to, several
strangers, including the truck’s driver, were bending over me looking quite
concerned.  Apparently, I had struck my
forehead on the curb.

To say I was lucky would
be an understatement.  The driver must
have slammed on his brakes in time to slow to a great degree.  I was able to ride my bike home.  I have no memory of seeing a doctor or even
informing my parents, although I believe they did receive a phone call from the
police.  I’m sure my mother was relieved
to know that I required no care from her.
© 30 May 2016 
Part 2 
[Because
the chosen topic for today, “Public Places”, carries very little resonance with
me and my story from last week on the subject of “Bicycle Memories”, while
focusing on my “near death experience” on a two-wheeled conveyance, omitted two
other two-wheeled adventures that, while less serious, are nevertheless forever
emblazoned in my memory.  Taken together,
they offer a clue to as why I have not sat astride a bicycle for nearly ten
years now.]
The first misadventure
took place in August of 2001.  My late
husband, Laurin, and I were fond of taking bike rides around our neighborhood
in Dearborn, MI.  On this occasion, we
were heading back to our apartment building on a public sidewalk when I took a
spill.  I can’t remember the exact
cause.  I only had a slight scrape but it
shook me up enough that I walked my bike the last three blocks home.
Within a few days, we
were on our way to Montreal for the Gay Pride Day Parade.  We hung our new bike rack on the decklid of
our car crossing our fingers that everything would remain secured for the
entire journey.  Having arrived without
incident, we thought it would be fun to drive our car to the top of Mt. Royale
and ride our bikes down the long, steep hill. 
It wasn’t long before we had attained a high enough speed that I noticed
that all was not right with my front wheel. 
It had a noticeable wobble.  I
nearly lost control.  I had no choice but
to walk my bike to the bottom of the incline. 
The street there was lined with shops and I was lucky to find a bicycle
shop nearby.  Within a couple of hours,
all was fixed but the seed of doubt had been planted once again that perhaps
bikes and I just don’t get along.  (Some
of you may remember the story I told a year or so ago about being cut off by
another boy as a novice bike rider and sailing head-over-handle bars into a
ditch where I cut my forehead on a rock and ended up with an allergic reaction
to the old horse-derived tetanus serum.)
But the “Bicycle Memory”
to top them all occurred ten years ago almost to the day.  Laurin and I were simply going out for a
nice, easy pleasant ride around Capitol Hill. 
We needed to air our tires, as they had gotten rather low in storage.  We stopped at the Conoco station at 8th
Ave. and Downing.  They must have had two
air hoses because I remember both of us filling our tires simultaneously.  I had just completed the job when I heard a
loud “BLAM”.  Laurin had over-inflated one of his tires and
it had blown out.  So, we took turns
riding my bike and walking his to Turin Bicycles at 7th Ave. and
Lincoln St.  The blow-out had bent the
rim on his bike and they needed a day to make the repairs.  We headed toward home with just my bike.  I rode a few blocks down 7th Ave.
and then offered my bike to Laurin.  In
those days, 7th Ave. sidewalk crossings were not graded for the
handicapped.  For some reason–perhaps
related to his incipient but undiagnosed Parkinson’s–Laurin did not stop in
time and ran into the rather high curb. 
He ended up flying over the handlebars and now my bike, too, had a bent
rim.  My visions of what the guys at the
bike shop would say or think haunted my every step on the return trip.
Well, they were very
diplomatic about showing any disbelief or contempt (after all, we were now
repeat customers).  The walk home was
very long but we both saw the funny side of the entire affair.  I was extremely relieved that Laurin was
hardly scratched from his fall.  Later, with
both repairs having been completed, we immediately set about finding a buyer
for the bikes from Hell.  From then on,
we would trust our lives to walking shoes, which are guaranteed never to blow
out or get bent.
© 5 Jun 2016 
About
the Author 
I came to the
beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the
state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my
native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two
children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married
to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was
passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were
basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very
attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that
time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.
Soon after, I
retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13
blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to
fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE
Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.
Posted on

Where Do We Go from Here?, by Gillian

Waking
up in my bed that cold, wet, typically English, morning, my first day as a
student at the University of Sheffield, did I wonder where will this lead?
what will happen? where do I go from her? If I did, I don’t remember. I
certainly don’t remember how I answered myself.
Surely
I must have asked myself some questions along those lines on another cold wet
morning, lying in my bed on my first day as a college graduate. I was
unemployed and apparently likely to remain so. Jobs were thin on the ground and
many of my friends were leaving for miscellaneous spots around the world which
all had one thing in common; on our schoolroom wall maps of the world, they had
all been colored bright red. Why wasn’t I a part of this mass exodus to take up
opportunities offered by our erstwhile Empire? Inertia, I guess. Idleness. A
certain unwillingness to make decisions. Rather, I would drift, worry-free,
wherever the currents took me.
A
few months later these currents deposited me on the ocean liner Queen
Elizabeth, heading across the Atlantic. Waking that first morning in my
rolling, heaving, bunk, did I lie there contemplating my future? Where do I
go from here? I think not. I staggered to the breakfast room to chase an
erratically sliding plate around a pitching table, giving my future arrival in
New York, with no job and nowhere to stay, little space in my head.
Every
twist and turn in my life feels to me to have followed a similar pattern. The
ebb and flow of life somehow deposited me into my bed on my first morning as a
married woman, and some years later in another bed, my first morning waking up
as a divorcee. Then waking up as an out lesbian, followed by my first morning
to wake up beside Betsy. Suddenly, or so it seemed, I found myself waking up on
my first morning as a retiree, and still not really knowing how I got there.
Life’s waves had simply deposited me on yet another shore. I had never, as far
as I can remember, asked myself the question, where do I go from here?
Waking
up in a hospital bed, however, which I have done a couple of times in recent
years, tends to concentrate the mind! Where do I go from here? becomes a
vital question. Can I go home? When? How? Will I be in a wheelchair? Will I
ever be completely better? Or the very worst, will I die here? And that brings
up the really BIG where do we go from here?
Now,
as old age creeps quietly upon me, I occasionally do find myself asking the BIG
where do we go from here? in my own bed on a drowsy morning. It
no longer takes waking in a hospital bed to nudge such thoughts awake. I
wouldn’t say it worries me, simply that I chose to contemplate it once in a
while.
I
cannot say I believe …. anything. On the other hand there is little that I
positively absolutely refuse to acknowledge is possible. The exception to that
would be a Biblical Heaven with angels and harps, and a fire and brimstone
Hell. Other than that, I just don’t know. It seems to me that when my body
dies, some energy must be released. The world needs balance, so that energy
must be used elsewhere. But how that works, what form it takes, is beyond my
imagining.
As
far as it goes, it fits nicely with various theories of reincarnation, about
which I keep a basically open mind. But I have a hard time getting my head
around it. I find it almost impossible to imagine a scenario where some future,
reincarnate me, is aware of past multiple me’s, simply because energy from the
present me is put to use elsewhere. Especially as, if I get into this transfer
of energy thing, I come to the belief that all energy is the same so mine is
not confined to human form. If mine returns as a nice shiny apple growing on a
tree in New Zealand, I fear it will not be visited by any ghosts of Xmas past.
Just
as I seem never to have given much thought to my destination at different
junctions in my life, I expect that without too much anxiety I can let the
tides of death deposit me wherever they will, and wherever that is, I shall
never know.
But
maybe I’ve got it all wrong. Some morning perhaps I shall wake up dead, and at
that moment know all the answers to all that ultimate question, where do we
go from here? I just hope there will be strong rip tides and currents and
monster waves to wash me along to wherever I have to go. I don’t want to have
to start out my next life making decisions.
© 4 Jan 2016 
About the Author 
 I
was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to
the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the
Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30-years at IBM. I married, raised
four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting
myself as a lesbian. I have been with
my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty-years. We have been married since 2013.
Posted on

Our Path, by EyM

True leaders
willingly follow.
Best leading
tunes in, listens, cares, inspires,
and then
moves upward.
Maybe the
loneliest person is the one
who could
never learn to share,
so clamored
instead to take control.
If well
trained unworthiness kneels
at the feet
of the selfish controller, oppression results.
There on top
of their own oppression,
ever pushing
downward,
the
controller has no chance to rise.
No one comes
to them on the tennis court of life,
to receive
their perfect deadly serve.
The domineer
stands waiting ball in hand in,
completely in
control, and completely alone.
The upward
path emerges from courageous sharing
and the ever
liberating ability to trust.
A true and
strong light shines from each person
and standing
side by side these lights
make bright
the path for everyone
to travel
onward, and upward
together.
© October 2014 
About the Author 
 A native of
Colorado, she followed her Dad to the work bench to develop a love of using
tools, building things and solving problems. Her Mother supported her talents
in the arts. She sang her first solo at age 8. Childhood memories include
playing cowboy with a real horse in the great outdoors. Professional
involvements have included music, teaching, human services, and being a helper
and handy woman. Her writing reflects her sixties identity and a noted
fascination with nature, people and human causes. For Eydie, life is deep and
joyous, ever challenging and so much fun.
Posted on

Disconnect and Fear in the Aftermath of the Orlando Massacre, by Donaciano Martinez

There is a major disconnect between the
experiences of LGBTQ young people of color and the broader LGBTQ community.
That was the main message behind the need for a separate vigil that took place
in mid-June 2016 in Denver to remember the victims of the Orlando massacre.
Organized by the nonprofit Survivors Organizing for Liberation (SOL) and Buried
Seedz of Resistance (BSEEDZ), a youth project of SOL, the vigil was led by
LGBTQ young people of color.
The separate vigil was in direct response to the
first vigil that was hastily organized at a Denver gay nightclub that featured
speeches by public officials and spokespeople from a few nonprofit
organizations. When two carloads of SOL and BSEEDZ activists arrived at the
nightclub, they were shocked at the extensive presence of police officers who
were searching people as they entered the building. Appalled, SOL and BSEEDZ
activists unanimously decided not to attend the event.
“The history of queer and trans communal spaces
are rooted in acts of resistance against police brutality,” proclaimed the
public statement of BSEEDZ and SOL in direct reference to the 1969 Stonewall
Rebellion, which is widely recognized as the start of the movement that has
evolved to the modern-day fight for human rights for LGBTQ people. “We refuse
to accept suggestions that increased police presence in our queer and trans
spaces will improve risks of violence or increase any sense of safety.”
The BSEEDZ and SOL vigil was attended by a
diverse group of about 100 people from the Latina/Latino, Muslim, LGBTQ,
American Indian, Two-Spirit communities and allies. In addition to remembering
and reading the names of the victims of the Orlando massacre, attendees paid
tribute to and read the names of 14 trans women of color who have been murdered
so far in 2016.
“We wanted to let everybody know and remind
folks that this isn’t an isolated incident, that this has been happening, that
we forget the 25 plus transwomen who were murdered last year, the 14 transwomen
who have already been murdered this year,” stated BSEEDZ activist Diana Amaya
at the start of the vigil. “All of this is just part of genocide to our
people.”
The murders of 25 transwomen last year marked
the deadliest on record for transgender people in the U.S., according to
statistics tracked by SOL and other nonprofit entities that are part of the
National Coalition of Anti Violence Programs (NCAVP). According to NCAVP, last
year’s record does not include trans women whose deaths were not reported or
investigated nor do the statistics include victims whose gender was
misidentified or not even recognized by police and the media.
Speaking about why LGBTQ young people of color
oftentimes feel disconnected from Denver’s Pride event that has been organized
annually over the past 40 years by the nonprofit GLBT Community Center, a
BSEEDZ activist noted that it “hurts so much” that Pride’s history is being
erased and that the LGBTQ largest organizations “sell out.” Attendees were
urged to remember Pride’s history, which started as an act of resistance at the
Stonewall Rebellion.
Other vigil speakers included an American Indian
Two-Spirit individual who is transgender from female to male. Recognizing the
privilege that comes with being a man, he said his life has been so much easier
as a man and he has been negligent upon forgetting that other people in the
LGBTQ community are not as fortunate as he is as a man. One mother spoke about
being “scared” and having a “hard time” upon learning that her child is a transboy. Another woman attendee recounted her gay brother’s recent experience of
being escorted off stage at his college graduation when he raised his fist and
yelled the “Orlando” word.
Ayla Sullivan and Emery Vela, both members of
the slam poetry team called Minor Disturbance, read a poem they wrote for the
occasion. Before reading the poem to the attendees, they acknowledged:
“Queerness has not always been something that was shamed before the colonizers
came, it was something that was sacred. It was something that was beautiful and
it’s still something that is beautiful.”
Addressing the irrational fears of LGBTQ people
and Muslims, BSEEDZ activist Amanas pointed out that the Orlando killer’s
Muslim identity makes all Muslims vulnerable to acts of violence by white
racists. “We know Islamophobia and homophobia as the same monster known by
different names,” said Amanas, who urged vigil attendees to break the fast
during the Muslim religious season of Ramadan by sharing a bowl of dates with
other people.
Fear was the topic of a recent communication
sent to the constituents of Denver City Council (DCC) elected member Robin
Kniech, an open lesbian who represents all of Denver as the at-large
representative at DCC. She stated that, despite the vigils and the camaraderie
at Denver’s Pride parade (which she noted had fewer spectators this year), she
is “not feeling better” nowadays. “Most of my LGBTQ friends and colleagues
don’t report feeling better, not when you ask them privately,” she added.
“The reason I don’t feel better is because I
feel fear,” proclaimed Representative Kniech. “And for me, it isn’t a new fear.
It’s about fears I’ve long held. Fears I struggled with, tried to talk myself
out of, suppressed. The inability to shake the feeling that all of these fears
were real and true after all. That at some point, someone who has real issues
with gay people, will want to hurt me because of who I am. Hurt
my partner. My son because he is with me. My friends. I am afraid, and angry
about my fear. In a state where I’m protected from being fired, could get
married, and was elected as an out lesbian, I am once again thinking twice
about whether and where to hold hands with my partner.”
Acknowledging that she has a certain privilege
status despite being a woman and an out lesbian, DCC Representative Kniech
stated: “Many folks who see me on the street don’t assume I’m gay, and I’m
white in a world where violence still happens less to those of my ethnic
background. So I feel even more fear for those in our community who don’t share
those privileges. And more anger about that fear.”
Regarding many people’s rush to prove that the
“terrorists haven’t won” in an effort to resume a life of normalcy,
Representative Kniech declared: “I write this piece to honor pausing. Pausing
to feel and name the personal fear and pain that was lying in wait and has been
triggered by these events, whether among Latino/a or LGBTQ folks, those
impacted by other forms of gun violence, or others. I don’t think naming this
personal pain disrespects those who were lost, or the causes that have to be
fought.”
Upon addressing the issue that pausing to face
the fear and pain somehow means that the terrorists have achieved their goal of
making people emotionally paralyzed from fear, Representative Kniech ended her
insightful communication by stating: “It doesn’t reward terrorists. In fact, I
think talking about fear, and how dangerous it can be, within ourselves, or
motivating evil acts by others, might be important to really changing the world
where these acts of hate motivated by fear are proliferating.”
© 12 Jul 2016 
About the Author 

Since 1964 Donaciano Martinez has
been an activist in peace and social justice movements in Colorado. His
activism began in 1964 by knocking on doors to urge people to vote for peace
and justice, but in 1965 he and other activists began marching in the streets
to protest against war and injustice. His family was part of a big migration of
Mexican-Americans from northern New Mexico to Colorado Springs in the 1940s. He
lived in Colorado Springs until 1975 and then moved to Denver, where he still
resides. He was among 20 people arrested and jailed in Colorado Springs during
a 1972 protest in support of the United Farm Workers union that was co-founded
by Cesar Chavez and Dolores Huerta. For his many years of activism, Martinez
received the 1998 Equality Award, 1999 Founders Award, 2000 Paul Hunter Award,
2001 Community Activist Award, 2005 Movement Veterans Award, 2006 Champion of
Health Award, 2008 Cesar Chavez Award, 2013 Lifetime Achievement Award, and the
2013 Pendleton Award. La Gente Unida,
a nonprofit co-founded by Martinez, received the 2002 Civil Rights Award. The
year 2014 marked the 50-year anniversary of his volunteer work in numerous
nonprofit situations.